Monday, November 26, 2007

Browning’s Lost “Giottino”

Out of my stock of natural delights: the bong’s soda water…
A sprung meniscus that crackles around the baptismal font.

It has paving, as well as drainage. It answers to laudanum. Any
variance to the hovel sciences that gives its sack

of damns: the post-violet shades co-opting rank
outlets. I say, “I’ve been ballasted with peppercorns.” (It dries

like love, the silk option, alienated with a full spread. On every
device.) My pockets were sewn closed. A conga line

of denim and nucleotides, famished. Evergreen…
Couldn’t stop. Tone values were massed in. A verdigris

curl at the nails; Mary painted from a plague corpse. Surfboard
encaustics. God the motherfucker. He acted to ensure

a predictive stippling: a slapped-on technology plugged-in
to a ball-park figure like Saint Anthony, outraged

in a hypertensive suit. An encomium to that plastic quality
then unknown. A purer hue skips the theater flats, quietly

along the estuary of Masaccio’s Peter. She’s there too,
in the medallion. A side of beef bays in my sleep. I wait

for his shadow, the thalidomide on a skateboard. A wild riff
stretches the baseline of consecutive ordinals, cardinals.

Give me simplicity. Give me a plumb larynx, straight as a line,
sluiced in a ventricle soup, with gel and sideburns. A twig

on my linen bringing a paler parentheses, like a close-out set,
conjures Ba on her traffic island. I adopted His amplitude.

A glazed mule that tunnels the vanishing point.

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